


Fairy Lights and Gingerbread

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John come home to 221B to find a surprise waiting for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairy Lights and Gingerbread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1electricpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1electricpirate/gifts).



> The thirteenth installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from 1electricpirate, who actually gets what she asked for, which I think might be a first for me this season.

They can see the fairy lights in the windows as soon as they turn down Baker Street, and John hears Sherlock’s laughter turn from the light-hearted giggling to something else – more sarcastic, maybe. Or just wry and resigned. 

“Mrs Hudson decorated while we were out,” says John, because he’s both surprised and not that Sherlock would disapprove of fairy lights, or Christmas decorations at all, and he likes Mrs Hudson, and truth be told, he likes fairy lights. If he gives Sherlock a reason to attack him instead of them, so much the better for their longevity. 

“Obvious, John,” said Sherlock, a bit wearily. John’s not sure if Sherlock refers to the observation or the ploy. 

“Well, I like them,” says John defensively. “Makes the whole street more cheerful. Festive.” 

Sherlock snorts, a wordless _Well, you would_ , and John decides to ignore his discontent and just settle for punching him in the nose if he makes Mrs Hudson feel bad about them. 

From the end of the street, the lights are bright and colorful. As John approaches, however, he begins to see the garish way the colors shine on the brickwork; the tatty wreath hanging on the door, the way the reflected colors become an extension of the sandwich shop, as if the entire building is devoted to the sale of greasy chips and slightly overbaked bread. 

The foyer is worse; there’s threadbare tinsel wrapped around the banister, a dog-eared paper banner proclaiming “Happy Christmas 1992”, and on the small table near the door, a motion-detecting Father Christmas, who immediately begins to sway back and forth to the accompaniment of a tinny-sounding “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas”. 

“Oh, God,” says John. 

Sherlock smirks as he unwraps his scarf, but the door to Mrs Hudson’s flat opens before he can say anything. 

“Oh, boys, there you are, I thought I heard you come in,” says Mrs Hudson, raising her voice to be heard over the Father Christmas. “Wait there, I’ll be just a tick.” 

“There’s more?” asks John blankly. 

“Oh, John,” says Sherlock, in the same tone he uses to cajole John into breaking and entering flats filled with frightening ninja swordmans, “but you _like_ fairy lights.” 

“Shut it,” says John. 

The door opens again, and Mrs Hudson brings them a Quality Street tin with a paper bow glued on top. “Here you are,” she says cheerily. “Careful at the top of the stairs, now.” 

She shoves the tin into John’s hands – because things given to Sherlock tend to become experiments in making penicillin from scratch – and disappears back into her flat. The Father Christmas, which had momentarily gone silent, is sparked again by her departure, and starts its dance again. 

But John can’t think about the contents of the tin. He looks up at the top of the stairs fearfully. Sherlock’s already halfway up. 

“Sherlock,” he hisses. “What’s up there?” 

“The entire cadre of reindeer and a thousand nutcrackers, John.” 

John tucks the tin under his arm and follows. “I hate you.” 

Sherlock waits for him at the top of the stairs. His face is unreadable. And as far as John can tell, the landing is devoid of any decoration, except for a taped sign on their door: “Happy Christmas, Boys! Enjoy your gift!” 

“John,” says Sherlock. “Open the tin.” 

John does. He expects something to leap out; instead, there’s only a rich, sweet, spicy scent, and when he looks inside, he sees thick squares of gingerbread, dusted with sugar, wrapped in wax paper. 

“Gingerbread,” he says, surprised, and then Sherlock’s hand snakes in to snatch a piece. John’s eyes follow it, and watch him pop the bite into his mouth. 

“Worth any amount of fairy lights,” said Sherlock, licking the sticky residue from his fingers, and then he points up to the mistletoe hanging above their heads. 

_Careful at the top of the stairs._

_Enjoy your gift._

Ah. Leave it to Mrs Hudson to go where angels – or those who side with them – fear to tread. 

John carefully closes the tin, and when he reaches up to wrap his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, he’s careful not to pull him down too abruptly. His lips are careful as he presses them to Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock hesitates for only a moment before carefully taking John’s caution and effectively throwing it out the window. He opens his lips and deepens the kiss in earnest, and by the time he releases John, they both taste of Mrs Hudson’s gingerbread.


End file.
